


something they forgot to label as fragile

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Ableism, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Greg House, Character Study, Episode: s03e04 Lines in the Sand, Gen, Kinda, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Child Abuse, autistic author, john house choke and die challenge, the r slur is said twice in narration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: A few moments dealing with House and autism.





	something they forgot to label as fragile

**Author's Note:**

> i watched lines in the sand and my autistic self was quaking in my boots so of course i wrote this out. also fills the 'abuse' square in my gen prompt bingo card. as you can tell i love house a lot.
> 
> enjoy!

The family is preparing to leave, Wilson next to him. He says in a whisper how he isn't autistic, how he doesn't even have Asperger's, how he wishes he did. He makes a mental note of getting a note from a diagnostic team at some point.

They come to him, and Wilson backs away a little.

"Listen..." Adam's dad trails off. "Thanks."

"You saved his life," Adam's mom tells him.

"Yeah, I know," House blurts out. "See ya."

Adam walks up to him, soft breath and all his symptoms gone. He doesn't look at him; of course he doesn't. He reaches his hand out; his fingers are curled around his PSP. He draws a breath and takes it. He knows a comfort item when he sees it, and this is a lot.

It's a lot more when the boy looks up and makes eye contact with him, childish wonder in his eyes. It lasts just a few seconds, but House doesn't think the boy has ever made eye contact with someone he barely knows before. The boy looks away, and House catches the sight of his parents ecstatic, almost bursting with emotion at the seams.

"You're so good!" Adam's dad squeals, kissing him and taking him in his arms. For one moment, House can feel the shadow of John House looming over that man, and he can see him praising him for making eye contact, his cheek stinging.

House draws in a breath, looks at Wilson- makes the so-dreaded eye contact- and moves on.

"That was a ten," he hears Wilson say.

 _Yes_ , he says silently. _It was a ten in John House's scale of happiness, too_.

* * *

Cameron says that change sets him off, and House is tempted to yell out 'Eureka!' but he doesn't. It's a power play, even though it really isn't, and he's gonna piss Cuddy off by continuing this little game of his.

Perhaps it'll bring his carpet back eventually.

He continues talking, shifts his cane in his hand. The motion makes him relax, makes the nagging feeling that this case will cause someone to figure him out go away. He's barely dealt with autistic patients before- especially ones with such heavy needs- and a good part of it was the thought of seeing himself reflected a little too much.

It's easy to ignore, though. He maneuvers Adam better than the rest of his team, tries to find out what's wrong with him. He's ten years old, and he doesn't speak, and his parents left everything for him.

John House- not his father, never his father- did the exact opposite, but in a way it's similar. Being sheltered for who one is can be very similar to being attacked for who one is, in the long run.

Adam's dad tells him about Foreman snatching the PSP off the boy's hands, and House can see himself in the same situation. He can see John House snatching the biology book from his eleven-year-old hands, the clock ticking midnight.

He draws in a breath, knows no one will figure it out, knows he's safe from all that would cause, really.

* * *

House remembers the dialogue line by line. A while ago he rewatched and rewatched it until it could play over and over again in his brain. It's a good movie, really- a good movie to know every line to.

He recites it to Ali, sees the confusion in her face. She doesn't realize he's quoting Casablanca, doesn't realize he knows it by heart. Maybe that weirdo factor would run her off quicker.

He's glad he's mastered the art of lying. It's easy to lie when you make eye contact and when you force your lips to not twitch. "And sometimes loss of inhibition and judgment," he says, lying- of course he's lying. That's not what it comes with, ever, but Ali buys it.

He's glad his hyper-fixation on medicine got him where he is. He wouldn't change it for the world.

"So loving you, wanting to have sex with you, is all just the spores talking?"

He gets a prescription, reaches his hand out. "You'll probably live," he says, sarcasm spiking the probably. "Damn!"

* * *

A man rolls out the old carpet, and he draws a breath at an attempt to hide his relief.

The bloodstains are there, and it's still the same, the very same. His hand twitches against his cane, and he just twirls it, moves it discreetly. Cameron walks towards him.

There's a knowing look in her eyes. She's close to figuring it out, probably.

"All change is bad?" she says, in the tone of a question, but it isn't. "It's not true, you know."

House exhales through his nose, focuses on the carpet, on the change that disappeared. Now it's okay, now it's back to normal. Back to how it should be.

His hand twitches and he tries not to think of John House's hand around his wrist, pressing tight enough he was worried he'd cut his blood flow off. He dragged him through the street, pressing so tight so he wouldn't flap his hands, wouldn't move them much.

He's glad autistic people aren't supposed to be assholes, supposed to be sarcastic, supposed to be addicts, supposed to be the best diagnostician in the country. His little secret - and the yell of 'retard' - will stay a secret, except maybe to Wilson.

Wilson gets to know a lot of things other people don't, after all.

* * *

House is tired of his team talking about the parents. The goddamn parents, leaving everything for their child, leaving everything because their child is different and they want to take care of him.

"Yes, they are everything you'd want in a parent," he says, a tone of bitterness to him. "Unfortunately their kid is nothing you'd want. When a baby is born, it's perfect; little fingers, little toes, plump, perfect, pink, and brimming with unbridled potential. Then it's downhill, some hills steeper than others." He thinks of sleepless nights, and John House screaming at his mom, and of John House yelling at him for a D-, and John House screaming at him because he tried to talk to the nonverbal kid across the street

"Parents get off on their kid's accomplishments." One of Wilson's toys says something about bending over. He represses a sigh. "Cute!" A pause. "They'll annoy you with trophy rooms and report cards. Hell, they'll even show you a purple cow and tell you what a keen eye for color their kid has."

Wilson walks into his office. His face scrunches up, and he walks out immediately after.

"But this kid, he doesn't smile, he doesn't hug them, he doesn't laugh. His parents get nothing. Nothing but the right to brag that their kid picked orange juice out of a line-up."

John House could brag about his son being the best diagnostician in the country, but he'd probably be too bitter about him being retarded as a kid to do so.

* * *

A few years later, he walks into Dr. Nolan's office. Warm and welcoming, unsettling. Nolan isn't as kind as everyone tells him therapists are supposed to be.

Weekly sessions- it's an easy routine. He twirls his cane in his hand and sits down, leaves it on the floor. There's the nagging need to tell him, to ask, for anyone to listen to him when he suggests it. Or when someone else suggests it, as it might as well be the case.

He draws in a breath.

"Nolan."

He doesn't even blink. "House. How's your week been?"

"My week doesn't matter right now." He ignores the nerves. Why is he nervous? Why in the hell is he nervous? "I need you to get me a diagnostic team."

Nolan's brows furrow, he picks up his pen. "What for?"

"I need an evaluation for autism."

Nolan blinks and writes something down. There's a pause. "...Who for?"

House leans into the couch, draws in a breath.

"Me."


End file.
